


In the Morning...

by abbichicken



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe, Angst, Control Issues, M/M, Mansion Fic, Mindfuck, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik wakes up to an extremely unpleasant reality.</p><p>I wanted to write something short, sad, and horrible. I don't know why. But, I think that's what this is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Morning...

In the morning, Erik wakes up cold and shaking. Charles has all the covers. Erik's skin has the clammy surface feel of refrigerated raw meat; desensitised, sap-soft. Images come to him, as his insides churn, don't go there, don't think about it...a warning from his own subconscious not to proceed with the inquisition, but Erik ignores it.

The sound of Charles' voice, an echo, words indistinct but tone clear and convincing, milking, warm and liquid and encouraging, and then the stillness. The horror shows itself in flashes, an absence of memory as the experience transfers from being warm and drunk and amused, to face down on the bed, the absolute and utter discomfort of being trapped, stuck, frozen in time as Charles uses his body, unyielding and dry as as it must have been, for his own short, sharp, disgustingly selfish, sickeningly verbalised orgasm.

Every stroke hurt, from first to last, and Charles' hot, damp weight on his back left an impression so strong he can still feel it.

As Erik turns, slowly, instinctively reaching for the blankets, a raging ache and stab in his abdomen, a soreness through his hips, a rare burning sensation to stripes and half-moons scratched and etched across his shoulders...these images are not from a dream.

His throat clenches as his bare flesh breaks out in a nauseated sweat. The shakes intensify.

He runs a hand down his body. The insides of his thighs are sticky, and there's a wetness, still. Blood. Semen. Something.

A stretching, growling pain begins to gnaw at each of his muscles, as Erik edges himself carefully, carefully off the bed. As he tries to stand, he stumbles, when the pain stabs so hard at his lower back that he can't engage his legs properly. Righting himself, with terrible care, he stares through the darkness at Charles. He can barely see him, just a curl of soft, mouse-brown hair on the pillow, a closed eye. Peacefully asleep.

Erik's body convulses with the urge to vomit, again.

They are in his room. With everything he has, Erik controls slow, hyper-aware movements, collecting his jacket, his trousers, a shirt.

It takes him three attempts to open the door with the greatest possible silence, to be able to use his powers without gravitating every single piece of metal in the house to weight Charles down for eternity.

In the doorway, he looks back at Charles one more time, as if trying to sear something into his mind, something that will, as it was for him, be there when he wakes.

 _You are nothing like the man you pretend to be._

He is choked, horribly, with a sadness and a grave, incurable sense of stupidity.

He should have known.

He should never had trusted a man whose views, whose methods, whose...presentation was so different from his own. But Charles was beautiful, and captivating, and convincing, and he saved his life, and he was...exciting, entrancing, no two ways about that.

And then he was a thief, a hypocrite, a liar, an over-entitled wretch of a man who has more power than he knows how to use. He pretends to know the good inside himself, but is so obsessed by his own needs than those of anyone else, be they mutant, human, whatever.

Erik closes the door, naked, carrying his clothes, padding, silently, to the bathroom.

He doesn't turn on any lights, doesn't light so much as a candle. He runs a bath full of ice-cold water, and gets in without a moment's hesitation. His heart crashes alive against his chest as his body fights to take in the chill, and he forces his breaths to regulate, deep, rasping, holding the oxygen inside himself for as long as he can, then pushing it out until he's completely empty, and his eyes see sparks in the darkness.

He scrubs his skin, gooseflesh, bruised in the chill water, with a pumice stone, until it burns, and feels new.

 _If you'd only asked,_ repeats itself, over, and over. _We could have been equals._

He drains the bath, and stands there, dripping everywhere, stretching, trying to restore bloodflow, trying to restore _himself_ , to reboot and return himself to the place he was a matter of weeks ago, before he lost himself in the web of a telepath.

In time, he will think that Charles didn't know how to ask, that Charles believed himself to be...enabling something, somehow. He will remember the way Charles held him, afterwards, in flashes, only flashes, and he will remember that he couldn't speak, could only stare, blank and open, unblinking with drying, sore eyes, into Charles' wet, laughing eyes.

He will remember the way that Charles told him that this was just the start, that it would only get better. Charles encouraging him to sleep, to rest, telling him that, in the morning, he will take care of him.

He won't remember Charles apologising, because it didn't happen. Charles didn't see that there was anything wrong with holding him still, with just...taking.

He thought Erik would want it that way. A demonstration of power.

He barely understands that sex exists in any other way.

Erik understands so very much more than Charles ever gave him credit for. And he is nobody's pet; he is no longer a project. This could have been everything, he'd thought, but by trying, by being hopeful, by looking to live like others, he has come to be left with less than nothing.

The sense of betrayal, the crippling, furious sense of _waste_ , and the taunting unpleasantry of his own misjudgement, will never leave him.

He doesn't want to hurt Charles. The realisation surprises him, but, somewhere in his logic, he believes that that is what Charles would assume of him. He is not Charles' assumptions, his naive connotations. He is far from predictable, and will not bend to consequence.

He takes the car keys, and the car, and drives, very far away, knowing, as he does so, that it can never be far enough.


End file.
